


Sigrold week 2020

by Alphawave



Series: The universe sings [18]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, sigrold week 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphawave/pseuds/Alphawave
Summary: All 7 prompts for Sigrold week 2020.
Relationships: Dr. Harold Winston/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper
Series: The universe sings [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1434493
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Galaxies

**Author's Note:**

> It has been too long since I've done a Sigrold story, let alone 7 of them for this week. I kinda missed day 1's, so this one as well as day 2's prompt will be up at the same time. Enjoy!

"You're getting age spots, Harold."

"I know," he grumbles. Harold expected this day to come, although he's not particularly thrilled about their arrival. At least for the moment these dark spots are easily concealed by his clothes, but he dreads the day they make their appearance closer to his hands and face, where anybody may see them.

He turns his head towards Siebren. "How many of them are there?"

"A couple," Siebren says. "I can take a picture of them if you want."

"No, that's fine. I don't need to see them." He doesn't need a reminder of his age. Doesn't need a reminder that he's never once settled down, never once found a love so strong he'd risk it all for. He's found it now in an unexpected place, far above and beyond anything his brilliant mind could have ever conjured, but the relationship is still fresh. Still raw. Besides, how is he going to organise a wedding on the moon?

Siebren frowns, his fingers circling around regions on his back. Harold suspects that's where the age spots are. "Are you concerned they are more than they appear to be?" After a pregnant pause, Siebren asks, "Do you think it might be cancer?"

"No, it's nothing like that, it's just an unwelcome reminder of how old I am." Harold forces a chuckle, but it sounds more like a sigh. "I know I shouldn't care. It's just pigmentation. But still, it's just another sign that I'm just getting old. I mean...I want to make a difference. I want to be more than the sum of my parts, I want to see the future I see—the future we both see—come to fruition. But there's a limit. I won't be as strong or as smart as I was twenty years ago. I might miss something, like Lina did with the omnics." Quieter, Harold whispers, "I might not be able to help anyone."

"Do you really think that just because you're getting older means that you are no longer a benefit to society?"

Harold squirms a little but doesn't deny the statement. He won't say it out loud, but it is what he thinks.

Siebren hums softly in understanding. "Time is a construct of our own making, but we still feel it. The fourth dimension, it's impossible to guess what lies in its stars. And not knowing can be scary for many."

"But not for you," Harold utters.

The slightest whoosh of wind behind Harold's back. The shake of a head, he assumes. "Not knowing something is fascinating. All the things we cannot comprehend, all the stories untold. That's the thrill of discovery. And the two of us alone have discovered a great deal."

"We are scientists, I suppose."

"And just how much of the population are scientists? And of those scientists, how many of them is not only qualified to work up on the moon, but is instrumental to the creation of the world's first lunar colony? Who else has developed a genetic therapy that not only minimises the impact of microgravity on a range of mammals, but also vastly increases the intellect of said mammals?"

Harold takes in his surroundings, the sterile white walls, the quite hoots of animals slowing down as they descend to sleep. Harold would deny it if someone said it, but Horizon lunar colony's existence is largely due to the efforts of both himself and Siebren. It's only fitting they would meet here. It's only fitting they would fall in love here.

A soft plume of air tickles the back of his neck. The hairs on Harold's skin stand up for attention. "You have done many things, Harold Winston. Many great things. And you will do many great things in the future."

Harold shudders. He closes his eyes instinctively, even though he knows Siebren can't see his expressions. Not that it matters. His body speaks what his lips won't. "H-how can you be so sure?"

Siebren's forehead rests on the meat of Harold's shoulder. He swears the heat on Siebren's face is so much hotter than his hands, transmitting muted emotions through Harold's veins, making him feel a bit of what Siebren feels. And what Siebren feels is shame, and love, and warm-hearted affection. To think so many people see Siebren as a cold-blooded scientist that only cares about his experiments when Harold knows just how much love Siebren can give. 

Softly, in a voice Harold has never heard from Siebren's voice before, "Because you are the smartest man I know. And I include myself on that list." 

"Siebren..." Harold whispers. 

The fingertips on Harold's back drift lower. A kiss is pressed to his bare shoulder, making him shiver. Songs are mumbled into his skin, whispered melodies flowing into Harold's blood, heating him up from the inside out. It's intimate, raw, tamed only by the lethargic tempo of Siebren's movements.

"Siebren…" They should stop, but Harold can't find the words. It's been so long since he's been touched like this, loved and beloved, as precious as oxygen. It's been so long since he's felt comfortable in his own skin.

"Sshhh," Siebren whispers. His fingertips trail over Harold's skin reverently. "I'm mapping the galaxies."

A snort bubbles out of Harold. "Galaxies, huh?"

A smile is pressed into Harold's hairline. "Galaxies," Siebren hums. "And they are beautiful. Right here is the Milky Way," a soft stroke of his fingertips, "and the Triangulum galaxy," the briefest slide down his back, "the Pinwheel", slow circular motions that makes Harold sigh, "and many many more."

"And which one is your favourite?" Harold cannot help but ask.

Siebren chuckles politely as he stands up and rounds over to face Harold. The dark circles under his eyes are not as pronounced tonight, his eyes glittering like the night sky, his smile as brilliant as the smile. There's a flicker in his gaze, and Harold understands immediately what is about to happen, and he surrenders himself completely as Siebren cups his face tenderly in his hands and gives a chaste kiss to the lips.

"That's not an answer," Harold says.

"Because there is no answer," Siebren caresses Harold's face. "I've got something better than a galaxy, right here and right now. After all, I hold the universe in my hands."

Harold laughs into the atmosphere, letting his face fall as he hastily fixes his glasses. "That can't be true."

"And why not?" Siebren asks innocently.

"Because I've got the universe right here in front of me," Harold wraps his arms around Siebren's neck and pulls him close, forcing Siebren to sit on his lap. "Unless we've found evidence of the multiverse in my bedroom now."

Siebren laughs loudly, brilliantly. "Don't give me ideas, I promised to focus on you tonight. Although I personally do not mind exploring this hypothesis."

"You are such a nerd," Harold sighs as he pats Siebren on the shoulder. "Come on, turn around. It's my turn to explore your galaxies."

Siebren shakes his head in amusement, but agrees to Harold's orders and turns his naked back to Harold. In doing so, he gives up constellations and stars and infinite mysteries to the universe. A fair trade, Harold thinks, for letting his own galaxies be memorised so easily.


	2. Maestro

"A lovely performance as always," Maestro Siebren de Kuiper claps his hands politely. "We shall reconvene tomorrow at 9am sharp here."

And not a moment too soon, Harold thinks. He's exhausted today. Has been exhausted for weeks now. It's hard not to be exhausted trying to concentrate on your performance and not thinking about the way the maestro's hands move so gracefully in the air, not thinking about the little smiles of triumph metamorphosing into calm, stern power. How can you give a song power when all that flows through your lips is grace and softness like the pink clouds of the heavens? How can Harold stay in a small, dark room and not get lost in the melody of Siebren's fingertips? It's exhausting trying to pretend he's not falling in love with Siebren all over again, every single time they meet. 

He'll just get out of here, go back home, and pretend he's not a middle aged man with a schoolboy crush on someone that's way too high above his standards. He's already disassembling his flute and packing it into its case as fast as he can when he feels a presence behind him.

"Ah, before you head off, Mr. Winston. We should have a chat about your recent performance. Privately." He stresses that last word, teases it out for much longer than is necessary.

Harold can already hear the teasing he's about to get from the others later. Siebren's mastery of the English language is versatile in his understanding of English idioms, but he has yet to recognise the more sexual double meanings behind innocent phrases. Still, he's not about to refuse him. He can suck it up for a little bit longer. He can handle being just the two of them for a few minutes.

When everything is packed away, Harold follows Siebren out of the concert hall that they're practicing in and out into the small courtyard to an unassuming building with a few unassuming doors. Siebren, ever the gentleman, opens the door and gestures for Harold to follow him inside. Harold gulps, steadies his breathing, and takes the plunge. The click of the door being shut behind seals his fate.

Siebren's office is small, with manuscript papers and concert itineraries strewn across his desk, his mad scribblings barely coherent to most. He makes a beeline for his desk but does not sit down, instead gesturing at the other, smaller chair in front of Harold. "Please, have a seat."

"I'm fine," he says, his voice sounding incredibly hoarse.

Siebren tilts his head. "Ah, is your voice a little rough from all the playing that we did today?"

It's not, but Harold will take any excuse he gets, clearing his throat loudly. "A-ahem. P-perhaps," he squeaks.

Siebren chews at his thin lips, his gaze affixing Harold to the spot. "I must apologise in advance but I do think we need to get to the point of this meeting. And that is your performance as of late. As lead flutist, and soloist for two concertos I've written especially for you, I do expect a certain quality, but recently it sounds as if you have been regressing. At this rate, I might have to train Flores to take your position and learn your solos, and that will set us back weeks, if not months."

Those damned concertos, Harold morosely thinks. They're how these feelings started. The long nights discussing the technical and lyrical limitations of Harold's ability. The tender, passionate discussions shared over coffee and tea and a soft couch in Siebren's apartment. And the concertos themselves, masterfully romantic and undeniably evocative of devotion and ardour and desire, the kind of songs that speaks of romantic hearts searching for one another in the darkness. Played right, it is a confession of love. Played wrong, and it sounds more somber and mellow, of a love lost or a love that was never truly there. 

"I'm sorry," Harold says quietly.

"Apologies are only for matters that are in your direct control," Siebren says. "You have no reason to apologise, unless you believe you are purposefully performing in a lesser capacity."

Siebren's fingers dance on the table, drumming tiny little beats that Harold vaguely recognises as one of the songs they've been practicing for the last month. How he's wanted those fingers to dance upon him instead, writing beautiful symphonies on his pliant, tender flesh. "Then I do need to apologise then."

"Have you not been practicing at home lately?"

Harold shakes his head. "It's not that, sir."

"I believe I told you all to call me Siebren." But still he smiles, his features softening for just a second before turning into a harsher, concerned expression. "Is it something else? A personal issue?"

Harold turns his head away. "You could say that."

It's this statement that makes Siebren stand fully, brows creasing in worry. "I don't want to pry, but if there's anything you feel the need to discuss, I can lend an ear, as the saying goes...I think." 

His hand goes to Harold's shoulder, and percussive beats thump in Harold's heart. He can't stand it. He's going to crack. He can't keep it in.

"It's...it's OK. Really," Harold croaks.

But Siebren is not convinced. "Harold, please. I say this not as your colleague but as your friend. You've been acting strange recently. Always so jumpy whenever I see you. If you need a break, anything, please do let me know and I will arrange it."

He can't swallow it down. Siebren is closer now, holding his shoulders with both of his strong, dexterous hands. The love song flows and flows, he can't keep it in, can't hold it together, can't hold it together, can't hold it together.

He's not sure if he actually heard the crack of glass or if he felt it, but one moment he's standing before Siebren, inches apart. The next, his lips are upon Siebren's, bruised upon unbruised, love upon the unknown. Mouths are instruments, flexing in flight, moving with careful precision to elicit specific responses, and suddenly Harold is briefly aware of one of the reasons why he chose to play the flute in the first place. He carves out songs into Siebren, a solo of his own, a call out for the wide yonder. When he pulls away, he waits on lidded eyes for Siebren's response.

It's certainly not one Harold expects. The pink on Siebren's cheek is new, as is his hairdo, now mussed-up to match with his wide-eyed shock. It's a cute look, one Harold would listen to on repeat for days and days at a time, but it means so much more.

"I...H-Harold, I..." Siebren clears his throat. "O-oh, I see."

"Like I said. I should apologise," Harold starts.

"N-no, don't apologise. I should be apologising. I've...been giving you the wrong message."

Harold's feared this. But he's already gone past the deep end. He might as well cut it all out, cold turkey. "What do you mean?"

"I-I'm not good at expressing myself with words. Especially in English, some of the finer points still confound me, and I'm not sure even my native Dutch can communicate it. But nevertheless I tried to show you in other ways. The concertos. The private practices. I thought I might communicate through my actions. But I...appear to have done too little, if I've distracted you so much you had to resort to a..." he leaves the word _kiss_ unsaid.

Harold blinks. "S-Siebren, are you saying you like me too?"

Siebren ducks his head down and smiles bashfully. "Does that mean you like me?"

Harold doesn't know what to do or what to say. There are words, so many of them, but all he can enunciate is a sigh and a tired chuckle. Siebren joins in, their quiet laughter exaggerating the ridiculousness of this situation. Harold doesn't know if he wants to kiss Siebren, or kiss him _hard_. He just wants to do something about his own lips, about Siebren's hands, about Siebren's lips and heart and eyes and everything. 

"This is why I make music. Conversation is just too...difficult for me to express the necessary emotions. The necessary words. The language of music is much more universal."

"It's not that universal if I didn't know until you said it," Harold comments. "So those two concertos I'm soloing for?" 

Siebren somehow blushes brighter. "W-well, I was hoping they would be obvious. I did write them specifically for you."

"And those nights together in your flat? The coffee dates?"

"You didn't consider why I invited you so many times?" Siebren raises his eyebrows.

Harold blushes himself. "OK, that's on me, I get it. But...there's one thing I've been wondering."

"And what's that?"

Harold can already hear the teasing he's about to get from the others later. "Can I kiss you again?"

Just like that, Siebren's smile brightens, increasing in volume. "I was going to ask you that, actually."

"Well then, what are you waiting for?" Harold chuckles.

When their lips meet once more, the concerto plays once more. Together, they make the sweetest music known to mankind. But it is not yet known to others. After all, this song only plays for an audience of two.


End file.
